{∅, {∅}, {∅, {∅}}} : Rage Against the Meat Grinder

While searching for clarification on why I value this idea of scorning the universe, why I value Thomas Ligotti's validation of my own well documented praise of Schopenhauer and Cioran, I literally stumbled upon an essay I found worth bringing to your attention (your being Holden but also Senor Raul).

As Zamyatin said, the best novels he never wrote, but lived.  Our own subjective experience of lived reality will never be reproduced by art or literature - yet there are some whose attempts at describing the world as their representation appeal to us more than others.

Before I get side-traked by the chaos inside my own head, I will attempt to follow through and post the intended link, maybe even copying and pasting an excerpt.

Essays on the Weird : What impressed me was The Trauma Factory

How I stumbled upon the board:  I was drawn to an essay called F_ck You America, which I am unable to link to since the annoying-as-hell NannyAutoPolice prevent me from typing the url address which contains, as George Carlin would say, a BAAAAAAD WORD, namely the word f-u-c-k.  Kurt Vonnegut warned us not to use "naughty words" as it gives people a reason not to read us.   I beg to differ with Herr Vonnegut.  How many readers does one really need?  Do we really need everyone in our family to want to read our real thoughts?

We need one reader, only one.  That's all it takes in order for us to be read. 



I tracked down the author's name here, S.C. Hickman (Craig?)

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THE FOLLOWING IS THE EXCERPT
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The Trauma Factory

“Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal…”     – H.P. Lovecraft, The Tomb

Behind our eyes are those of the tiger, wolf, dolphin, elephant, and mustang and all those animals and insects of the terrestial dream; the shifting gazes of a million life-forms spread their light among the dark contours of this sensible self. The mutable surface of skin hides the innumerable macrophages who defend the black inner realms like the militia of a defensive army, engulfing the cellular debris and pathogens of a terrible desire; and the bacterial denizens of this wet oceanic life in symbiotic resistance break down the ancient predatorial and vegetal vitality that invades the blood and acidic cavities, each mobilizing its own secret agenda without benefit of agent, goal or purpose beyond the sacred power of teeth chittering in the hive. The inertia of metalloid biotics collides with the fractured resilience of this strange flesh like a musical score played upon some stellar harp spread across transfinite dimensions, bleeding into this space of time giving birth to the shape of a spectral delusion that is beyond the human form.


Over the years wandering the sub-cultural delirium of dark alchemical mutant dataclash like ccru, conspiracy theory, bizzaro, weird tales, horror, gothic, noir, pulp etc. one gets the feeling that what is being related, although not empirically true nor part of some vast collective reading of the unconscious psyche of the planetary psychosis, is rather the notion of a world-wide Trauma Factory. As if there is a productive system of necrotic knowledge systems producing cosmic nihilism and despair, nightmares and consensual hallucinations; populist narratives gathering threads from every form of deranged mediatized corruption and fetid unknown shadow world; absorbing, collating, revising, narrativizing and republishing for mass consumption the fears and geotraumatic events of our age. Theory-fictions: all the subtle horrors and aberrations, sociopathic and/or psychopathic invasive natural and transnatural installations from the great Outside. Broadcasting not the actual but rather the virtual inlays of a traumatized civilization and species as it faces absolute extinction at the hands of its own secret death-drive toward apocalypse and annihilation.

Maybe this dark gnosis from the collective delirium is a message from the hinterlands of Non-Being, a fragment of that forbidden knowledge we’ve needed for so long but were unable to accept nor fathom, but now that it has arisen from the dark portals of our own being like a murderous passion we can begin to register the truth of our inhuman nature, accept the challenge of knowing for the first and last time who and what we are, wherefrom we’ve been tossed, into what we’ve been thrown, and whereto we are speeding like so many daemons on a runaway train to oblivion…